


Ironic Fate

by PoisonMistress



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonMistress/pseuds/PoisonMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is alone. John is under suspicion of murdering his boyfriend. They meet, and feel an immediate attraction. But with murder hanging over John, and Moriarty's threats over Sherlock, can their relationship survive? Slash. Sherlock/John. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU fic. John is a suspect for his boyfriend's murder, and Sherlock is set on his case.

_Bored._

It had been almost a week since that last case.

_Bored._

God, his brain was going to explode.

_Bored._

What was the point of criminals if they took the Easter holidays off? What happened to 'crime never sleeps?'

Sherlock ignored the fact all the blood was rushing to his head, wondering vaguely what Lestrade would call it if he did die from boredom. Probably suicide.

The flat was completely and unbearably silent. Only the very faint hum of traffic from outside breaking the dullness. The light from outside shifted in through the window, giving the otherwise dark room a slightly eerie look. Not that Sherlock cared.

He lay, draped down the chair so his back was on the seat and legs over the top for what felt like a long time, before pushing himself off into a roll and lying on the floor, wondering if there was any improvement.

He _needed_ a case. Preferably sooner rather than later. This was just unbearable.

He considered breaking into the morgue. Or maybe Lestrade's office. But he'd managed to break into both places several weeks ago, and had been extremely disappointed by the lack of challenge.

He crawled up onto the sofa, and stretched out. His body was beginning to protest. Three nights without sleep, and already he was shaky.

The lack of food probably wasn't helping either. But he hadn't been hungry, and it was to much of an effort to go out to the shops.

_What's the point of being a detective if there are no crimes?_ he wondered moodily, during the struggle to keep his mind from shutting down.

And what about Moriarty? He was proving considerably less exciting than he had first hoped. After all, they had parted with Moriarty promising to crush him beyond repair. And yet, rather disappointingly nothing had even had a whiff of Moriarty for months.

So he was just as dull, boring and predictable as everybody else.

_Bored._

\---

"Christ! Get Mrs. Hudson will you Sally." were the words that woke Sherlock the next morning.

He didn't move, listening the hurried tread of Sgt. Donovan. So, Lestrade was here.

"This better not be a social call." he sneered without opening his eyes.

"Oh. You're not dead then." said Lestrade, the worry in his voice overriding the joke.

"No, rather obviously not."

He cracked an eye open to gaze coldly at the DI, fingertips already buzzing with anticipation. A case had arrived. According the the mantel piece clock, it was midday.

"Yes well... Good," Lestrade leant forward, a sigh breezing through his nose. "You don't look well Sherlock." he said.

"Don't I?"

"Don't play dumb with me. When did you last eat?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, closing them again after a moment. He didn't need anybody mollycoddling him. He was an adult, and perfectly aware of his limits. Food was only required infrequently, and until then there was no need for it.

"A few days ago." he said, with an exaggerated sigh.

"Christ," Lestrade repeated. "I'm not letting you out the house until you eat something." he said.

Sherlock managed to pull himself into a sitting position, trying not to show the slight trembling in his hands.

"I can look after myself." he snarled defensively.

"The evidence would suggest otherwise."

Sherlock had thought of the perfect scathing retort, but he was cut off my Mrs. Hudson, trailed by Sgt. Donovan, entering the room.

"Sherlock dear! What have you done to yourself this time?" she asked anxiously, plopping herself down on the sofa beside him.

"Nothing. Lestrade insists on fussing." Sherlock said, shuffling away from her.

From the interesting promise of a case, his day had now gone horribly astray.

"He hasn't eaten for a 'couple' of days. Do you have any soup or anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. I'll go and get some shall I?"

"No, Sally, could you please...?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, I should have come up and checked on the poor dear. But I didn't know..."

"You're not to blame, Mrs. Hudson. His a self-destructive idiot, that's all."

"I know, but all the same. Where would he be without us?"

"I am still here you know," Sherlock snapped irritably, bored of their monologue. "And I don't need anybody, certainly not you two." he added, with a vicious edge to his voice.

Mrs. Hudson just tutted, and Lestrade patted his shoulder, ignoring the way Sherlock shied away from the contact.

They were used to it.

"Tell me about the case." he said, sitting a little more upright, and frowning as his head swam.

"If you promise to-"

"Yes. Yes. Now talk." Sherlock promised, feeling the familiar coiling of excitement.

A case. Finally.

"Fine. I'm not sure how much it will interest you. But I thought..." a stony glare brought Lestrade back onto the right track. "Yes, well. Murder, we think. This morning, about ten. An Adam Winster. Shot through the head. Apparently a cold crime, but we haven't seen any similar around the area."

Sherlock nodded, watching as Sally pressed a tin of soup in Mrs. Hudson's hands, glaring at Sherlock as she did so. He returned her gaze with equal dislike, only to be brought back to Lestrade.

"Number one suspect is his boyfriend. John Watson. Has no alibi, and was the one to find him. Only ten minutes after the death. Apparently he didn't hear anything, even though he was in the room above the murder."

"Seems a fairly simple case. Even you should be able to work it out."

"Well yes. But I don't think Watson has murder in him."

"And on your instincts, you have called me in?" Sherlock scoffed.

"It's that or nothing,"

"Fine. Anything else linking Watson to this crime?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade was right, it was better than nothing. And maybe something would come of it.

"His gun was used. He's ex army, so is probably a good shot. The only real thing in his innocence is the fact it was his boyfriend."

"Of how long?"

"Almost a year and a half."

"Hmm."

It still didn't sound very interesting. But at least he would be able to decide one way or another. And sometimes these cases had potential.

"I'll do it."

Lestrade nodded. Before Sherlock could make his escape however, Mrs. Hudson returned, a mug of soup in her hands. She pushed it into Sherlock's pale spidery ones, lips pursed.

He hesitated for a moment under the stern look of his _landlady,_ not _housekeeper_ , before wrinkling his nose and taking a sip, ignoring the burning of his throat and tongue.

"Have as much as you can keep down. I don't want you chucking up at the crime scene." Lestrade, arms folded as he watched Sherlock.

He managed to drink about an inch of the soup, before feeling his stomach churn uneasily, and being forced to hand the cup back, taking a few breaths.

"You've barely touched it." Mrs. Hudson said, annoyance plastered over her features.

Sherlock was stopped from noting she had just pointed out the obvious by Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"We could take it in a flask. Malnourished people should have lots little and often." she said, her fake worry not fooling Sherlock for a moment.

"I don't-"

"Perfect Sally. Do you have one, Mrs. Hudson?"

And so it was that half an hour later, Sherlock followed Lestrade up to a small flat with the flask of soup under one arm. Ridiculous. He was not malnourished for one thing.

Of course the rest of the yard found it highly amusing, despite Lestrade trying to calm them down a little. In Sherlock's opinion he didn't try very hard however. He was sure several took pictures.

Throughout his examination of the hallway Lestrade constantly nagged him to have a bit. He was sure it was more out of revenge than concern.

He was crawling around the floor by the skirting board, flask still pinned under one arm when he became aware of a new presence in the hall. He didn't glance up, hitching the flask higher in his arm, glowering at it as he did so.

"Do you want me to take that?" asked the person from behind him.

He whipped round, meeting the gaze of the newcomer, first with slight curiosity, and then as their eyes met, nervousness. His stomach had clenched, and it wasn't the usual hunger pangs. It was something new.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson." said Lestrade's voice.

But as he stared at John Watson, nobody else existed, only those blue eyes, set in a friendly, kind face.


	2. Chapter Two

The whole thing was a fucking nightmare. From the moment he had watched the blood pool out from Adam's head, and felt himself collapse beside him, whispering nothings.

After that, when he had realised there was no pulse he had called the police, and let what he truly felt out.

Nothing.

He felt nothing at all over the death of his boyfriend. Not guilt. Not sadness. Not really even grief.

Just a sense that the police were slowly focusing more attention on him. He watched them search about, feeling foreboding creep up in his chest.

Nobody had actually secured him yet. But he had the feeling they all thought he'd done it.

They let him stay at the scene, probably to keep and eye on him, but also because Harry hadn't answered her phone, and he couldn't just turn up on her doorstep saying his boyfriend had just been murdered.

And that he was the number one suspect.

It didn't feel like he thought it would. There was nothing inside him. He didn't care. Was that bad? Should he be feeling?

He hadn't loved Adam for a long time. Not since it started. Heaven knew why he stayed. And in the end it hadn't been a good idea.

A murderer...

Not something he thought he would ever be suspected of being. Even in Afghanistan, he had only fired to save another.

So he stood, clothed in what was basically a bin bag, leaning heavily on his crutch, watching the few officers that had been permitted on the scene wander around, occasionally being asked questions. He'd already had a long talk with a detective... Lestrade and his sidekick.

It was impossible to tell if they thought he'd done it.

And it was from where he stood, by a forensic scientist called Anderson, who had been told to 'look after' him, that he saw he tall, pale man step out from a cab, and immediately be joined by DI Lestrade.

He surveyed him curiously, watching the long coat clad man stalk forward, face more emotionless than any of the officers, and flask of something under one arm.

"Who's that?" he asked Anderson.

The forensic scientist glanced in the direction he was looking and growled in an ill-tempered manner.

"That's freak." he said, his voice harsh with no joke in it.

"Who?" asked John, feeling the nickname was not one given through fondness.

"Freak. Or less officially known as Sherlock Holmes," he said, then gave a snort of appreciation. "What's that he's got?"

"A flask." John said, watching Sherlock Holmes walked confidently along the concrete path of his flat, ignoring the sniggers and derisive comments as he passed.

He couldn't help but feel sorry for the man.

"What does he do?"

"Solve crimes. For fun. He doesn't get paid. He just does it as a hobby." Anderson snorted again, and wondered off, leaving John to contemplate the man.

He eventually decided to brave going back into the house, and hesitantly limped over, only to find Holmes in his hallway, crawling along the ground, flask under one arm.

He smiled uncertainly at Lestrade, who returned it, and then continued to watch Holmes. He was constantly fiddling with the flask, and after gathering up his courage he spoke.

"Do you want me to take that?" he asked, glad there was no nervousness in his voice.

Sherlock glanced over at him, expression melting from ice to something very different.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson." said Lestrade, his voice holding the implications which came along with the name.

John gazed back at Sherlock, realising with a jolt how bloody gorgeous his eyes were. And those angular cheekbones certainly had something too.

Sherlock was the first to stir, silently holding the flask out, the tinniest twitch of his lips thanking John.

Lestrade seemed mildly surprised as John took the flask of something hot, and watched Sherlock continue with his shuffling.

There was more silence, and then Sherlock stood up, his gaze straying back to John before snapping away.

"Can I see the body?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded, and the two of them headed into the living room. Sherlock however, paused in the doorway, looking back at him.

"Come." he said imperiously, waiting in the doorway.

"Ah, is that-"

"Hurry up." he snapped, though his eyes kept that thoughtful, slightly afraid look.

John cautiously hobbled after him into the room, glancing at Lestrade for permission. The officer merely sighed and shrugged.

Adam's body was sprawled across the floor in exactly the same position he had left it in. He eyed it, swallowing as he let his eyes stray over the blood.

Sherlock was crouched beside the corpse, looking, but not touching.

"Does it sicken you?" he asked without turning.

John hesitated.

"No." he answered truthfully.

Adam's body was no different to the many he had seen in Afghanistan, and in the surgery. The fact he had been his boyfriend made no difference.

"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock continued, still staring at the body.

"Afga- how did you know?"

Sherlock snorted softy, but said nothing.

John watched him, even more curiosity in his gaze. Who was this man apparently with mind reading abilities and a strange name?

"You found him here, like this?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah..." John swallowed back the bile.

He hadn't seen violence on quite this level since Afghan. But he was still troubled by the lack of emotion in his heart.

"He was dead?"

"Definitely."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, and looked back, his gaze making John's stomach somersault.

"Doctor?"

John considered asking how he knew, but didn't bother. Maybe another time, if...

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded, and gingerly lifted up one of the man's hands.

"Have you noticed any unusual people around?" he asked.

"No... Adam did have a new drinking friend, but that's not unusual." John answered, that sending a shiver down his back.

Sherlock was now sniffing the lax face of his ex-partner, a slight frown fixed there.

John knew what he had realised. But Sherlock said nothing, rocking back onto his heels and surveying the dead man.

"I can't tell anything at the moment, Lestrade. I want the phone numbers of all family and friends though."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade sighed.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Fine. Ask Donovan, she's got them."

Sherlock nodded, and strode out of the room. John hurriedly turned his face away from the corpse, Sherlock's slim figure no longer blocking it from sight.

"Shall we go?" Lestrade inquired.

John silently nodded, and they excited into the hall.

"So he...?"

"Helps out, on the tricky cases."

John frowned.

"This is a tricky case?"

Lestrade looked him squarely in the eyes as he answered.

"If he can prove you didn't do it, it's a tricky one." he said calmly.

John nodded dumbly.

"He does it for free?"

"Think of it like a hobby. But full time. How he gets by I don't know." Lestrade shrugged and sighed. "I've never seen him like that before though."

John blinked, the nervousness in his stomach constricting. A nervousness he had not felt since he met Adam, before it started. It had ruined their relationship. Killed all the love on his side at least.

"Like what?"

"Well, he was unusually nice."

John tried not to flush, just smiling slightly.

"Look, give Harry another call. I'll be round later." Lestrade said.

John nodded, dialled Harry's number and after a quick fire conversation, was safe in the knowledge she was coming to pick him up.

"Okay, I'm leaving." he said, limping painfully out of his flat.

His flat which was now a crime scene.

He met Sherlock halfway down his path, standing there impassively. John came to a halt as he drew level, squinting up into that oddly attractive face.

"Flask, if you please." Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

John nodded, and passed it over. Their fingers brushed together for a few long moments, and their eyes met again, before John quickly looked away.

"It isn't mine." Sherlock said, as if that needed clarifying.

"Why have you got it?"

Sherlock's lips drew into a sneer.

"Apparently I need nourishing." he said disdainfully.

John shrugged, and gave a nod.

"Well, bye." he said, not daring to meet Sherlock's eyes again.

Sherlock nodded, and was bounding down to the road before John could even blink, the file of names and address clamped under an arm alongside the flask.

He watched the tall, slim frame of the detective slide into a cab, and as it was whisked from view.

"I'd stay away from him." said Donovan's voice behind him.

He turned slowly round, wincing as his leg throbbed.

"Why?" he asked, instead of saying _who's to say we'll ever meet again._

"He's dangerous. He does this to stop getting bored. And once day, he'll keep himself busy by putting the bodies there in the first place." she responded, no self doubt in her voice.

"I'm a suspected murderer too." John pointed out, though it made him feel queasy.

"Lestrade doesn't think you have murder in you. But Sherlock Holmes does."

John eyed her, before making the painful journey down to the road to wait for Harry. He didn't know if he would see Sherlock again, but he certainly hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr : http://poisonmistress.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent the afternoon pacing up and down, over the coffee table, and round the chairs.

It wasn't the case that was puzzling him, not really.

It was John Watson.

What had those feelings in his stomach been? And why, even though he knew what had happened, did he insist on trying to find a way out for John? Prove that he hadn't murdered anybody.

All the evidence led to John, and yet he didn't want to believe John had actually done it.

Why was that? What was stopping him from calling Lestrade that very instant, and saying John had done it?

Was it because John hadn't done it. Or because he didn't want to have to believe John was guilty.

He was afraid it was the latter.

But why? Why was that? There had been something between them. Like a palpable barrier, which just wanted to be pushed and broken. That brief touch over the flask, there had definitely been something there.

Something he'd never felt before.

He had also found it a little more difficult to deduce things about John. Because he spent most of his time looking into his eyes, and not at the important evidence.

He was an ex-army doctor, sent back home two years ago because of a bullet wound to the shoulder. He knew it was Afghanistan. He knew that Adam had been a heavy drinker, for around six months. And that John now worked at a surgery, had a therapist and a psychosomatic limp.

But he hadn't been able to tell from just looking at him whether or not he had murder in him. Because his eyes just seemed too captivating. Orbs of blue he wanted to gaze into, but didn't dare. He couldn't puzzle John out.

What's happening to me?

It was slightly frightening, but he knew what it was. He was attracted to John Watson.

He'd never been in his life. Not like this, anyway. There had been some girl at college, but he couldn't remember her name. But as he searched through the rather small folder where he stashed his feelings, he decided that the feeling he had then, and the one he was having now were the same. Only more intense. Along with the fact he had never even considering acting on previous 'feelings'.

He wasn't sure whether to be glad, or annoyed that he had realised what the problem was. Because it was a huge problem, and one he wasn't exactly sure what to do with.

Should he act on these feelings' or ignore them?

Could he ignored them?

He was safe in the knowledge he could contact John at any time. His number and address were printed beside him on that folder. Not that he'd admit to himself the true reason of taking it.

Because even though he knew the reason... The reason for his feelings. His thoughts. He still didn't want to admit considering something everybody thought impossible.

He didn't want to consider caring.

Why? Because it was impossible.

Or so he had thought for the past thirty years. And now, his whole world was being rocked by a single man. A murder suspect. But he couldn't get John from his thoughts.  
\------

Sherlock spent that day thinking whilst lounging on the sofa, dressing gown draped across his body. The case wasn't a good enough distraction. Not when it was pitted against John, this new and interesting phenomena.

He didn't believe in love at first sight. But, there had been a something there. A something which he couldn't for the life of him describe or catalogue.

Yet it was intriguing, and something he wanted, desperately wanted to follow up.

Which of course meant seeing John again.

But could he? Had there been something on John's part? Would he be affable to meeting the 'freak' of crime scenes again? And even if he were, would he want to take it to the next level?

So many questions, and there was only one way to find out. But it meant taking a risk. A leap of faith.

Something he'd never had a problem with until now.

He had nothing to loose, but the idea of being... rejected made his heart falter.

It was most unsettling.

The afternoon drifted away, with only one distraction coming in the form of Mrs. Hudson, forcing two ham sandwiches down him.

By evening, he'd decided to take on a smallish case, offered to him by an acquaintance. It was homicide, so was fairy promising, and would hopefully offer a distraction from John.

Did he want to be distracted from John?

He snarled into the sofa cushion, rolling onto his back and rubbing his temples.

He had been with John for no more than half an hour, and yet he was obsessed. Fixated. Ridiculous.

By midnight he had told the acquaintance he would take the case on, and headed into his cold, lonely bedroom. The silence seemed even more oppressive than normal. Stifling him as he lay, refusing point blank to let any thought of John enter his mind.

By the time he drifted to sleep, he'd already given up attempting that.  
\----

The next morning he was up bright and early, slipping out into the brisk morning air before Mrs. Hudson was even awake. He couldn't even stomach the thought of food.

He walked slowly to the establishment of his acquaintance. It was a small café, and a few weeks ago a member of staff had been murdered.

Of course the police had no idea, but Sherlock had agreed to look into it. The main point of interest was that there was no discernible motive.

He waited, stamping his feet against the cold, and watching his breath drift away with dull interest.

John was still a prominent fixture in his mind.

The café owner turned up ten minutes later. Mark, his name was.

"Glad you could make it Sherlock."

"Indeed. There were no DNA traces on the body, or crime scene?"

Mark gritted his teeth while shaking his head.

"Hmm. You have the police report?"

Mark nodded, and handed over a bag.

"All you need?" he asked.

"Yes. But I want to see the crime scene."

"Not much evidence now." Mark replied.

"Nevertheless."

Mark shrugged, and opened the door up, ushering Sherlock through, then led him into the back of the shop.

It was a fairly dreary place. Steel worktops scrubbed to an inch of its life. Tiles, disgustingly clean. All neat, precise and unbearable.

"I said there wasn't much." Mark said, shrugging.

Sherlock shrugged, and looked round. He'd have to check in the police systems for any more similar murders in the area. A serial killer would prove an even better distraction.

The room, apart from being spotless, was small, and quite crowded.

"How many people work here?"

"Three, me, a lady, Annaliese, and poor Tony..." Mark shakes his head.

"And you have an alibi?" Sherlock continued remorselessly.

"Ah, yeah... I was with Anna... Y'know... Tony was supposed to be shutting up shop."

Sherlock nodded, spinning on the spot as he surveyed the room.

"This was four weeks ago, hmm?"

A small nod from Tony.

He ran a finger along the stainless steel worktop, before nodding. Tony was right, it hadn't given him much information. But at least he had an idea of the zone in which the crime had happened.

"Bullet?"

"Yep. Shot through the head. I found him the next morning..."

Sherlock nodded and glanced at the file. It was going to be a long day of reading.  
\---

He was regretting taking the case on. It was fairly obvious, and rather boring to be honest. He spent the morning reading the file, which contained very little useful information. Then had a quick phone chat with a girlfriend, and a parent.

He had solved the thing before lunch.

It was fairly simple, and now only a matter of catching the killer. Something which should prove more interesting.

Tony had been up to his eyeballs in drug related debts. His gormless girlfriend had been in front of him whilst he was high, and his parents were aware of money troubles. It had only been a matter of asking the right questions, and making the right assumptions.

Sherlock was sure it was fairly large dealer, mainly because he had... experience in drug related matters. Only the large traffickers killed people who owed them big time.

It would be interesting to bring down the dealer. He hadn't done it in a while. But now, by lunch time, he was bored. His mind straying back to John.

His phone was resting on the arm rest of his chair, almost screaming at him to dial the already memorised number.

But something was making him hesitate. That ridiculous fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumlr account - http://poisonmistress.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

Harry fussed over him for the rest of the day. He spent most of the first afternoon curled in bed, just thinking.

Thinking about what life would be like without Adam.

Not so bad, he knew that for sure.

Not as bad as it had been.

He lay in the spare bedroom, a cup of cold tea on the table, three blankets gently spread over him. Despite all her faults, Harry had a good heart.

Since the drinking had started, his and Adam's relationship had gone down hill. Adam found it hard to get over his fathers death, and hence the reason for it starting was born. Once he started, he couldn't stop, and he had fallen down the same path as Harry.

The drinking had started a year into an otherwise happy relationship. Even for the first few months of progressively more drinking, John had loved him. But then, the abuse had started.

Shouting at first, when he was drunk. Then the occasional shove.

It had progressed from there, until at least every other week, John would lie on the sofa, feeling a smarting pain, and wondering where his life had gone so wrong.

He hadn't left for two reasons.

He had loved Adam, and though that had long since died, he felt a kind of duty. And when he wasn't drunk, his boyfriend was fine, always promising to stop the drink, and always breaking that 'promise' the very same evening.

The drinking 'friends' had been the worst, though they had only entered John's life a few weeks ago. Their little parties would involve going round to the flat, and drinking themselves senseless.

He stayed with Sarah on those nights.

She didn't know about the abuse, just the drinking. And it was easy to fool her. Simply saying he didn't like being around drunk strangers sufficed.

As soon as they got in, he got out.

He had been planning to break it with Adam for a good week. Just a lingering guilt made him feel like he was the one in fault for leaving. But then Adam had died.

So he was free again.

Until the police arrested him.

Sherlock Holmes also played a strong part in his thoughts.

That strangely alluring man. John tried not to think about him too much, but that haunting face stayed with him all afternoon.

Did Sherlock know the truth? Would he think with the police, or attempt to clear his name. Would he even see the detective again?

He hoped so.

If he had been free of all the luggage being murder suspect entailed, he would have asked for Sherlock's number. Though from what both Donovan and Lestrade had said, Sherlock wasn't that sort of person. But it would have been worth a go.

The reason he hadn't tried was mainly the fear that people would think he was trying to suck up to the man who was investigating a crime he was supposed to have committed.

The remainder of the day he just lay still. He had cancelled work, and didn't want to do anything except lie there and feel sorry for himself.

He just couldn't seem to get himself to grieve for Adam.

Harry brought him all sorts of sugar filled snacks and drinks, along with the occasional sympathy calls or gifts. He should have told everybody not to waste their money and time.

That night he drifted away with less difficulty than he thought, no nightmares haunting his sleep for once.  
\---

The next morning he crawled out of bed, pulled on the only spare pair of clothes the police would let him take away from the crime scene, and stumbled downstairs.

"Morning." Harry said with a slightly too bright smile as he plonked himself down on a kitchen chair.

"Hi." he said crisply, tucking into the bowl of cereal Harry handed to him.

She sat herself down opposite him, and watched him critically for a moment, her brown eyes narrowed.

"John, look I know this is going to sound heartless, but I have to go out for lunch. Date. And then I've got the anti-drinking thingy afterwards," she said. "I can cancel them if you-"

"No, that's fine Harry. I was thinking about going to see Sarah anyway... It's her weekend off."

Harry nodded, looking relieved.

"Great, thanks."

He considered asking her to stop acting like he was some kind of heartbroken teen, but decided against it as she hurried out of the room.

A few hours later he was sitting opposite Sarah, a mug of tea in his hands. They had known each other a long time, longer than he had known Adam. In fact, they'd started out romantically, before discovering it didn't work.

She was probably his best and only friend.

"So, how are things?" she asked.

He had informed her that he had been planning to break things off with Adam anyway, so at least he didn't have her fussing over him quite as much as Harry.

"Fine. Seriously. I know I should be feeling... something. But I'm not." John answered.

Sarah pursed her lips, but nodded, smiling slightly.

"And how about the investigation?"

John hesitated.

He wasn't going to lie.

"I don't know... I- I'm the main suspect." he said carefully.

"What? You?"

John shrugged uncomfortably.

"I was in the house when it happened." he said, immensely glad Sarah had not questioned his innocence.

"And you didn't hear anything?"

"No... The doorbell rang half an hour earlier, but I don't know who it was..."

Sarah pressed his hand, the small gesture lifting his heart slightly.

The next few hours were spent happily talking to her. Mainly about Adam. But also about the crime itself, and what the final verdict would be. Hundreds of questions cropped up, but there were answers to very few of them.

It was just before lunch that he got a call.

"Hang on." he said to Sarah, and she nodded, hurrying into the kitchen.

He peered at his phone's screen, taking notice of the 'unknown caller' message with foreboding, and answering.

"Hello. John Watson speaking." he said calmly.

There was a very, very slight pause. A hesitation which several seconds later made sense.  
 _  
"It's Sherlock Holmes... I was wondering if you wanted to meet for lunch?"_ the baritone voice of the detective said, no perceivable sign in it that he thought he was talking to a murderer.

John also hesitated, taking in the words. Sherlock had asked to meet him?

Though of course that could mean one of two things.

"Er, of course. I'd love to. Where do you want to meet?"

 _"I'll be outside 221B Baker Street."_ Sherlock answered.

"Great." John replied, before hearing the phone cut off.


End file.
